Begin To Hope
by TheSarcasticWench
Summary: Now, as he drank himself to oblivion and lived in a constant stupor, he wished himself dead. Then he wouldn't have to see them in his nightmares. Haymitch-centric one-shot.


**A/N:** Hey there!

This fic was written pretty much as soon as I finished the books and saw the movie (which was within the same week). Haymitch's character interested me right from the start, so I decided to try my hand at writing a Haymitch oriented fic. I don't think it turned out too badly, but I'll let you decide. Hope you enjoy it =]

Beta'd by the lovely xoxphoenix

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Hunger Games series =]

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They were constantly laughing.

Mocking him.

Haymitch the town drunk. He never argued with them, never demanded they show him respect. Why should they? He was famous for something atrocious, something most of the other Victors agreed on - the Careers didn't, but they chose to be apart of the Games so their opinion didn't count in Haymitch's eyes. Haymitch could deal with being labelled a good-for-nothing drunk, the disapproving stares from parents as they told their children to ignore him, the children giggling at him when they thought he wouldn't hear. What he couldn't handle, however, was being look at with adoring eyes. People who admired him for being a Victor. For surviving when forty-seven other children didn't, during the second Quarter Quell when twice the number of tributes were taken from the districts. Haymitch almost didn't survive. If he hadn't discovered the force field, and figured out he could use it as a weapon, he would've died. Back then, it was their lives, or his. Now, as he drank himself to oblivion and lived in a constant stupor, he wished himself dead.

Then he wouldn't have to see them in his nightmares.

They weren't the faces of the children he saw die or that he killed himself, like some of his fellow Victors said they dreamed. They weren't the faces of the tributes' families, with their accusing eyes and heartbreak because their child hadn't survived. They were the faces of the children from Twelve. Sometimes, it was the children he had mentored in the early years, back when he had tried to teach them. Slowly, but surely, Haymitch began to realise that he was an exception from District Twelve; he was cunning, intelligent, and had the survivor's instinct, and they weren't. The first year, the two tributes didn't last the initial bloodbath - the boy was lame, and the girl wasn't quite fast enough to dodge a knife to the back. The second year, the boy lasted until the final eight, until he was caught in one of the Gamemakers' traps and died brutally. The third year, they were both idiots and ignored all of Haymitch's advice (they died horribly). Slowly, the years progressed in a similar manner. Haymitch mourned the children, begged for forgiveness from their families, and began to drink to numb the losses. It wasn't until his eleventh year as a mentor when he lost all hope and drive.

She was a small thing. Fragile, as if the slightest gust of wind would knock her over. She came from the Seam, where food was scarce. The youngest of six children, the elder five all being boys, she was adored by her parents and big brothers. When her name was called during the Reaping, Haymitch remembered seeing her mother fainting, her father biting through his lip to keep from protesting, and the eldest two sons restraining the younger three. Bettany Tubbs, was her name, and Haymitch remembered the admiration he felt as that twelve year old walked to the stage, her lower lip trembling a little, but her face otherwise composed. He remembered the painful silence when Effie Trinket asked for volunteers. Those who would step forward, couldn't. And those who could step forward, wouldn't. Bettany was the last child Haymitch remembered trying to mentor. He wanted nothing more then to escort the little girl home alive, rather than a battered body in a casket. Haymitch tried not to get too attached. So did the male tribute from Twelve. But the poor little girl didn't stand a chance once the Careers from One, Two and Four set their sights on her. Haymitch remembered crying, seeing what was left of the child. And then he drank himself into a stupor. They all had their own coping methods; Haymitch's just happened to be slightly more destructive then most. But it was either drink himself to oblivion constantly, or lose his mind entirely. Heck, he considered taking his life more then once. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it - it felt like admitting defeat.

Twelve began to despair ever having a victor again. What hope did their children have with the town drunk mentoring them?

And then she appeared. Like a beacon of hope, volunteering in the place of her beloved sister; a sixteen year old named Katniss Evergreen. Haymitch recalled seeing her around town often in her youth - she made a point to steer clear of him - but most notably in the Hub. He never knew what she was doing there, just that she seemed completely at ease in the black market. Haymitch was already well past intoxicated when the Reaping began. When Primrose Evergreen was called, the small blonde child began her shellshocked walk to Effie Trinket, and Haymitch flashed back to twelve years previous - when another twelve year old girl with a brave face stepped towards him. This time, however, the girl didn't make it to the stage. This time a volunteer burst forward. Drunk as he was, Haymitch felt some relief that he didn't have to watch another twelve year old die. He began the journey to the Capitol as usual; avoiding the two tributes (and that annoying woman Effie Trinket) and staying drunk. But they wouldn't let him be. For the first time that he could remember, two tributes actually wanted his knowledge of the Games. They seemed determined to survive.

Some foreign, long forgotten emotion began to stir within Haymitch.

He damned near lost a finger - Katniss had better aim then he was expecting - and he found himself thinking; '_This girl...she won't take death lying down..._' He promptly poured himself another drink and drowned that thought - he wouldn't get invested, he wouldn't!

But Cinna, oh talented brilliant Cinna, designed a costume that made the entire country of Panem gasp and stare in awe. Katniss; the girl on fire. Haymitch could no longer deny it - this girl had spirit and one hell of a survival instinct. She had a reason to want to win the games - that beloved sister of hers. And, with a bit more of a shove, she would be likeable enough to win plenty of sponsors, which could be the difference between life and death in the arena. It was a long shot (it was _always_ a long shot), but Haymitch had made up his mind. There was still a tiny spark of hope left inside him - a spark that he'd failed to smother with bad tasting alcohol. Hope that, maybe this time, he would escort home a Victor, rather then a corpse.

"Ah, sweetheart." Haymitch murmured into his glass, staring at the recap of the chariot ride. "Between you and me, I think we might have a chance. Here's to hoping." He raised his glass in a salute to her burning image.

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**A/N 2: **I hope you liked it! I'd love to read any feedback you have to offer, so please drop me a review or a PM =] Thanks for reading!

-theSarcasticWench


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